


The Things I Didn't Hear

by Zaikyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, induced amnesia, mentioned attempted suicide, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:07:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaikyo/pseuds/Zaikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't remember something. Castiel is the reason why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things I Didn't Hear

It's warm.

The metallic finish of his Baby is always warm to Dean, whether actually or seemingly, the feeling tethered to him by some permanent memory he thinks he knows but doesn't remember he knows. It's a humid August day, even with the subtleties of autumn tingeing the air and the somewhat cool, invisible taste that enters his mouth when he inhales. It's nice. Dean's been feeling more and more _nice_ these past few weeks and he catches himself wondering where this newfound pep is coming from sometimes and then promptly bats the question away because why look a gift horse in the mouth anyway, especially with his track record of bad luck and fuck ups.

He tugs at the handle of his car and slides into the driver's seat, leather upholstery equally as warmed as the outside metal. Hands on the steering wheel Dean thinks loosely of where it was that he was planning to go. It's been like this for a while now; he'll pick up his gun or get into his car or hell, wake up in the morning and the world will suddenly whiteout whatever it was that he was thinking or doing or what he _would_ have thought or done and Dean's lost. It's frustrating, he knows he's been in the bad line of work for his whole life and that can shake your brain a little bit but he's _fine_ otherwise. And he's not getting old― hell no he's not― so what the fuck?It's like God keeps backspacing on his life and it's really starting to bug Dean. At least until Cas is there, right in the passenger seat and Dean knows he's okay then because when Cas is there, so's his head and he can think like a normal, functioning human being, odd as that may be. Cas' presence is the opposite of warm, not cold, but a cool radiant of comfort and he always makes Dean feel like someone placed an ice pack on his head. He's grateful for the quiet wisp of breeze that is Castiel's close proximity, even if he wont say it out loud.

He remembers now, like a code's been decided or an anagram unscrambled, that he and Cas are headed to Bobby's for some research on the whole necromancer case, and now that Dean thinks it over maybe he forgot that bit on purpose; this case in particular had been rubbing him the wrong way since the get go and if he knew himself like he knew he did, "forgetting" was just a special Winchester way of not dealing.

Dean thinks about that.

A "Winchester way," huh.

And just that quickly Dean's gone again, vague impression of something pressing and important on his temple but for the life of him he can't remember what it is. His eyes widen and then narrow, brows furrowing defiantly like he might see through the haze if he squeezes them hard enough. Beside him Castiel says nothing, but he's visibly stiff and somewhere around nowhere in the back of Dean's mind that little mannerism is familiar and correlating to the fog inside his head but he just can't put it together. Then out of nowhere there's a smell, it's awful and it rises, first as just something to notice and then more and more like it's an assault and it's hideous. Thick and heavy and a sick kind of warm and it fills Dean's lungs and his throat and his mouth and it's heavy, heavy, heavy...

Castiel places his hand on Dean's shoulder, cool and cleansing and a feeling like stepping out of a steamy shower washes over Dean and he remembers the road, the trip to Bobby's and the necromancer. He remembers everything and forgets the smell and vaguely, if at all really, Dean wonders why it's taken him so long to start the car.

The engine revs and the impala skirts down the highway.

At Bobby's they spend more time than Dean would ever like to spend, nose deep in dust and parchment and ugly symbols. By midnight he's ready to call it quits and Bobby is more than happy to agree. Castiel, with his heavenly-bestowed patience, stays put, eyes scanning the very fine text of a book dating back to sometime just before the romantic period. Dean follows Bobby up the staircase towards the back where his bedroom as well as the guest bedroom reside. In passing, Dean asks if Bobby's seen Sam recently. Bobby tells him he had been there today, but that he hadn't seen sign of him since early that afternoon.

Dean nods. Sam was always known for running off.

In his room Dean kicks off his boots, unbuttons his shirt and shucks his jeans. He could go outside to the car for something to sleep in, but the evening's worn heavy on his level of care and he'd just like to curl up in Bobby's old linen and sleep a solid eight hours.

He crawls into bed in his boxers, sound of rusty springs echoing in the empty space about him and for a moment something feels off. The prospect of being in a room by himself seems foreign and wrong to Dean and why the fuck would that be, he's a grown man with plenty of shit to be uncomfortable around besides darkness. But it isn't the darkness that sets him off on this itching tangent, but the _alone_ part. Like this room was made for two people or maybe _Dean_ was made to be two people. He doesn't know, he feels kind of-weird, not whole. It's enough to set him off into a little mental rock. The ceiling above him has hundreds of scuff marks and scratches, Dean remembers staring up at them as a child when Dad had dripped him off here and he needed something to wear him out enough to fall asleep and _there it was again._ The odd, swaying feeling like things weren't what they were supposed to be. Like he had forgotten something back somewhere but it was important and he'd lost it and _why_ had he done that? _Why_ had he left it? How could he? It was important! Wasn't it?

Dean squeezes his eyes shut as the smell wafts in and around him again. Thick, heavy, it makes him nauseous and he feels the thoughts in his brain spinning and shifting and warping into monsters. Corpses. That's what the smell is. Death. Only it's a different kind of death, not like the kind Dean sees almost every day, but some special kind. One that shakes him, makes everything in him run ice cold and wrecked. The blackness under his eyelids starts to move and form figures and scenarios. It's a body, laying bloody and hollow on the concrete, brown hair soaked in ugly red, face carved up and silent. Dean's holding him, arms cradled around his strong form tightly, too tightly, much too tightly... He should say ow, say "that hurts Dean, stop it." Only he isn't. He isn't saying anything and it's nauseating and stupid and it hurts, hurts, hurts because there's just _silence._ Nothing's there in that body, it's so quiet and empty-feeling that if Dean didn't know better he'd say nothing ever _was_ in there.

Something was though, something was in there. Dean's... Dean's.... And it hits him there in the darkness hard enough to knock every breath straight out of him.

Dean's brother.

Lying cold and red and impossibly still on the cement of some warehouse in some town, _that_ was Dean's brother.

A shuddering pain like nothing else wracks through his body as he remembers.

The haze about his mind is clearing and in it's place it's left violence and agony and Dean _remembers_. The long months of waiting, wishing, _praying_ for a way for him to come back, for Dean's baby brother to come back. And the steel-cold ache in his gut when he never did.

There was the darkness after a while. Dean remembers it clearly now, it came in waves, replacing the pain entirely, dangerously, with its substitute. Then there was the numbness that ensued. The loss of real rationality.

The idea.

Dean sees it now as he saw it then, clear and echoing like a chime in a subtle wind. Sweet, it was so sweet and lovely, the loveliest idea ever and Dean knew it was good, that it made sense― the _only_ sense left.

He'd taken the gun from the motel bedside table. It was cold, everything was cold then. Fingers shaking and eyes clouded with tears. He'd weighed it in his hands and it was just so heavy, heavy, heavy. Dean hated the weight of it. He'd pressed it to his temple.

Cool hands had stopped him.

_I'll make you forget._

That's all Dean remembers―all he needs to remember and the vision's gone, the smell too. He's choking on a sob too heavy to escape and the pain is actually too much to fathom.

That's when Cas is there, Cas who always appears when Dean can't remember, only now he remembers everything and it _hurts_ like a scream and a cry being ripped from his lungs and God make it _stop._

Cas is on him, hands pinning Dean by the arms; has he been thrashing? He hadn't even known. Dean's trying to scream at Cas, trying to ask him what he's done with Dean's head but the angel just holds him there, lifting a hand up to place over Dean's forehead and leaning down to capture Dean's breathlessly parted lips in his, strong and commanding and suddenly Dean isn't desperate anymore. The frenzy in his mind subsides and he wonders for about two seconds why his angel is on top of him, locked on his mouth but then it occurs to him that he really shouldn't care and he gets to kissing back pretty quickly. Unfortunately for him Cas is a fucking tease and he let's go of Dean and Dean wants to say something to the effect of "you should probably get back to touching my mouth with yours" but there's something on Cas' face; it's awful and guilty and pained and he forgets instantly that he ever wanted something right then.

And then Cas is gone. Dean hears the faint sound of books being closed and put back on their shelved downstairs and for a moment he wonders what the fuck that was, before allowing himself to fall asleep, lulled by a familiar haze creeping over him.

In the morning Dean and Castiel say their goodbyes to Bobby on his porch, nothing left to be read as Cas spent all night researching and miraculously, had found what they were seeking. The sun is rising just to the left of them, the morning air crisp and waking. Dean feels refreshed, ready to take on the hunt with well rested nerves.

They're about to turn for Dean's car when Bobby catches sight of something jogging down the road.

"Well, nice of you to come back, Sam."

Dean and Castiel both turn in time to see Sam run into the yard and pounce on Dean, fur wet and musky from where he'd no doubt been playing in puddles again. Dean laughs and rubs the spot under the dog's neck. Beside him Castiel stiffens once more, this time unnoticed by Dean.

Bobby huffs and smiles, fond and soft like seeing Dean with their recently adopted stray reminds him of something earnest and natural.

"Tell me why again, you named 'em Sam?" he asks.

Dean sort of shrugs, kneeling down to scratch the underside of Sam's belly.

 

"Dunno. Guess I heard the name somewhere."


End file.
